After the month of October passed, I watched its cold days turn into something hot and bitter that could never be experienced with this loneliness that I feel here inside this exile, inside this house that gathers the paralyzed, the people who have no longer any meaning in this life at all. I imagined myself. It is useless and I am no longer useful, and this in itself is worse than death. Why they did not apply euthanasia to us, it is better than this emptiness that we live here. Yesterday we were also young men and young men. They should respect how we want to end our lives, not leave us here in... Our last days in meaningless places. It is also an insult to our dignity and our former existence. The void also has dangerous fangs and it preys on everything. The month of October has passed and its gray clouds have gradually dissipated. I was watching its rain falling slowly behind my small window, and I could smell the smell of wet dirt for hours. For a long time, I sometimes imagine myself dead, and sometimes I repeat the whole past gradually, and I must repeat the past at this time. This is necessary because I do not have another time, and no time owns me. I am a poor man, and I have realized that I am a homeless person, with no time to hold me, and no shelter to hide and run away from. To her in my sad times, It's now November and my ex-wife was right when she once told me sarcastically My dear, you must change your astronomical view of the months. They are all one month. They differ only in their heat and cold. They do not control our destinies.
I never knew the reality of these months until I stood on their edge. I thought that every second brought something different, something crazy, something destined for us. The months seemed to me like a spider's web gathered day after day just to attract bigger things to us. I believed so much in the zodiac signs and in the other, unseen world. Although I am a man of science, a man who does not believe in God, he believed in the naivety of the third eye and the naivety of love. But today I watch these long years that I have lived and all these months that pass. It seems like one month and all that is different is that it is cold or hot. Did the other world also abandon me because I lost my faith in it, or because it lost its faith in me? Doubt is a serious matter. It does not drive you to madness, but rather to certainty, which truly opens your third eye, and your mind does not know how to deal with these harmful facts, and standing on the edge of everything was exactly what I needed to realize that, and that was more than enough to make me know that I was not good for anything. You should know that I am a hated man, an old man, lonely and sad, a man who has not created anything like him, and no one I am like in my nature, that I am made of loneliness in everything.
Ever since I sent the first letter to my daughter, Lillian Charles Miller Hall, and asked her to forward it to Mary Brooks's address, I knew that the letter would reach her within just days, and what made love so delicious these days was my inability to get it. It seemed far away and near at the same time. Here and there, it's a kind of strange beating that happens in the heart, just like Abigail said that this little heart shakes us all, not us who shake it, I re-read my letter a thousand times, and I imagined her soft lips slowly reading my words, slowly swallowing her saliva, and needing some rest from what I wrote to her as well. This is also considered a type of sex that we have between us. I reach the peak of ecstasy when I imagine her carrying my letter and sitting there. Alone, in her solitude, she holds me in her hands and I in turn shake her heart, wishing there was no one between us. Even this time has no power, it is not able to separate us there, and I will never wait for her with my silence. I will disturb this void and fill it with everything I want to say to her, that in the end I am an old man with a young heart, that I am a great revolution and I am coming to her.
After other days, I was running away from Mary Brooks, and I didn't like to talk to her much. I was not afraid that she would realize the truth. But I was afraid that a man in the last days of my life would see me as a frightened man, a man who wrote letters and hid. I knew that the moment she discovered my truth, I would have no more time to correct it. I had only a short time before death, or dementia or Alzheimer's, took me away. This will prevent me from having an interesting adventure, one that will allow me to regain the love I lost long ago, We cannot deny that there is something that this life always leaves for us, opportunities and other paths, that it is often generous, and so that we will always be able to love again. I learned with Mary Brooks that love is two distant people who have no relationship, but always return to each other. The same things, and they repeat the same sin, they are carried by one death arena, and they are hanged by one rope, at the same moment,
We are two, one of us is looking for sailing, and the other has lost all faith in the sea. Love is the only one that was able to carry us as one person despite our great differences, and just as love has no end because it has no age, the things whose date of birth we decide to write will also have a date of death, and that is why love in this age was not like this age at all. We can fall in love even if it is seconds before our death. These seconds can turn into a great glory that we experience in those last minutes, the likes of which we have never witnessed in all the years we have lived. And I realized then that I am a weak man and that there is always an authority that moves us from above, controlling us, like wooden marionette dolls. We shake, walk, and break as well.
But was this young woman aware of any of that? She had only lived a long summer, had only traveled in princess carriages, and had only the breezes of chaste and virginal love slap her cheeks. She knew everything, perhaps except about this strange love. The issue is not that I am older than her, this is no longer my problem. My problem is that I do not know how mature I am, and this maturity is holding me back, and these laws and this drama written by the first man. Everything has been imprisoned in my body. In my memory, I am a mobile prison. And what is the purpose of what I do, to get her and not get her, to say a lot by writing to her, and to remain silent in the moments when I should say things in front of her,
As they always say, nothing lasts forever. We all fall one after another like a big castle. We collapse with a major blow from the hammer of different destinies. We sink into the dusty rubble forever. But in reality, we are all one. We are here under the dusty rubble and under the blue of the sky. And the sea is forever one. In serious crises of love, we all need each other's mercy And I do not ask her to agree to be with me, nor to let me touch her young, fragile body, like small fragrant flowers. She is not fit to be squeezed with my hand. That would spoil the beauty of this legendary view. I desire her far away. I need something to light up my sky, light up my loneliness. Something that can move me at this age without me touching it or it touching me, something that I can return to because there is no longer a place to return to, there is no quiet place worthy of the chaos I am in.
And if it is something worth living and dying for in these days that I have left, it will certainly be what I decided to do now with this madness towards her, and any young woman who pushes you at this age to commit more foolishness and causes all this chaos in your balance is a woman who deserves to be declared. For it, a revolution against beliefs, against the prevailing thinking of others, and without the will of God and the will of love. I want it. I always wondered whether Mary Brooks would still see me as a cripple and an old, meaningless person if I changed my entire body and my entire life for her sake. But I always answered myself that I was an old cripple, with a shrunken face and teary eyes. As I said before, I was not good for anything.
A few days later, I received a letter from Mary Brooks, after my daughter forwarded it to me in her name. I carried that letter from the hall after Emily Walter gave it to me, smiling. Here you go, Mr. George. You have a letter from your daughter. I was trembling, and I swear to you that I felt like I was going to faint. I had fallen in love before, a long history of fleeting and serious love, but if I felt what I feel now, I had never experienced it. I went into my room and closed the door. I opened the letter, and her name at the top was Mary Brooks. Her handwriting was ugly in the manuscript that she carried everywhere she went. How did it look so beautiful? Did she rewrite the letter a thousand times to reach this height and holiness for my sake? There is no greater torment than what she did, to be Naked in this seductive way for an ugly person like me
And to find herself writing to a stranger she does not know, but whom she cares about, and choosing her best words that have not yet caused any wounds to her, giving you the threads of her postponed wounds to console and close your wounds in the present, it is quite similar to deciding to write inside the horrors of war, about a delicious apple that she dreamed of, and in a place. You don't care about what's inside those wars, and you only care about one war, a lustful war that was happening inside you The letters was as follows:
YOU ARE READING
lettres from another time
AdventureIt was the beginning of a season in which everything falls, the fall of 1991. The large magnolia flowers with their green leaves were falling behind the window of his small room, a small room whose walls were painted in light brown, a small room in...
